


maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy (but tell me you love this)

by soulsinashes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (falling asleep and hoping never to wake up and it works temporarily because curses), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Depression, M/M, Schmoop, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, and the gentlest, brief talk of, it's never called that but that was my intent while writing, so it's very mild but if that triggers you please take care of yourself!, terribly self-indulgent, when does it take place? i dunno but it's not now, you could conceive of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulsinashes/pseuds/soulsinashes
Summary: A prince has gone missing. A village has fallen ill. A healer is called upon to solve one, but just might end up saving both.(Fairy tale-esque AU where Collins is cursed and Goodsir helps. As he is wont to do.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from the richard siken quote
> 
> i should also mention that i do not have nor have had depression, and as such if i've bungled something somehow someway, please let me know!
> 
> also this is a no-homophobia historical mild fantasy au yeehaw
> 
> tumblr @ thomasjopsons if you wanna find me there

Harry had heard the rumors. Of course he had. They were unavoidable, it seemed.

_ A prince_, they murmured, _who vanished without a trace_. The prevailing theory was that he’d been cursed; others posited that he’d run away, or eloped, or died, or any other scandalous reason someone could think up. Harry knew much more than he’d liked, overhearing idle chatter from the patrons of his clinic. He figured that if the prince hadn’t been found after almost two years, he likely never would be. It was a shame, but with no crisis of succession following his disappearance - well, Harry figured there were more important things to worry about.

He had just begun packing up to turn in for the night when a knock sounded at his door. While unusual, there had certainly been those who knocked on his door so late for emergency situations, so Harry had thought nothing of it when he opened the door.

He had thought something of it when his unexpected visitor turned out to be a knight, armor near-glowing even in the dim lamplight.

“May I help you?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Mr. Goodsir?” the knight asked. Harry nodded. “I am sorry to trouble you so late. I would not impose so if it were not urgent.” He gave a small bow. “I am Sir Graham Gore, of the Royal Knights. May I speak to you in private?”

“Certainly,” answered Harry, not feeling at all certain. He led Sir Graham to a sitting area in the back of the room, anxiously wondering what the Royal Knights could want from _ him_. He tentatively perched himself on the edge of a chair and waited for Sir Graham to speak.

He looked as if he might, then paused, face giving way to concern. “You look as though you were a schoolboy about to receive a lashing. You need not worry; you’re not in trouble or anything of the sort. Actually, Mr. Goodsir, we find ourselves in great need of your help.”

“My help?” Harry asked, calming. “You’ve the best healers in the country; what could you possibly need my help for?”

“Well,” Sir Graham sighed, “put plainly, Mr. Goodsir… we think we may need your expertise as healer and scholar both. I know not if you remember Sir George Hodgson,” and Harry well remembered him, but not the part where he was a Royal Knight, or indeed, any more than a laborer looking quite worse for wear, not that he would say as much to Sir Graham, “but he spoke highly of you on both counts.” He paused. “There is a village that has had… a strange sickness befall it. The affected are drowsy, seemingly constantly, as if something is sapping at their energy. There is a distance in their eyes. And they… see things. Things that are not there. We’ve sent all our best healers to them, and still the illness persists. So we thought that, perhaps, a fresh perspective might do the trick.” Sir Graham’s gaze turned entreating. “I know you do vital work here, Mr. Goodsir, and if it’s your patients you worry for, you may send them to us, and we will have our healers take care of them in your stead. It is not the same, I know, but… will you help us?”

Harry knew from the moment Sir Graham opened his mouth that he would not refuse. “I cannot promise anything, you must understand… but I will do what I can.”

Sir Graham’s face brightened, as a sunrise. “That is all anyone can ask for. I thank you, Mr. Goodsir.” He rose, Harry following. “I will be here with a few other knights in the morning to escort you to the village. It is just over a day’s ride from here, not too far at all… And I must thank you again, Mr. Goodsir. It is a great service you do for us - and more importantly, for them.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Harry replied, bashful at the praise. “Although it is what any healer ought to do.”

“But certainly not what they all do.” He stuck out his hand. “Goodnight, Mr. Goodsir.”

“Goodnight, Sir Graham,” echoed Harry, shaking it. As he escorted him out, his mind was already whirling with thoughts of which of his tomes might shed light on the situation. He prepared a sign to put in the window, explaining the situation, packed his necessities, and buried himself in his books, not turning in to bed until the moon was high in the sky.

Harry was not awoken by knocking on his door, but he had barely gotten ready before the knock came. He opened the door to see Sir Graham’s kind face.

“Good morning, Mr. Goodsir,” Sir Graham said, far too cheerful for the hour. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry replied, locking the door behind him. “Where are the others?”

“We’re meeting up with them at the stables,” Sir Graham explained. “It seemed a waste to have everyone make the trek to your clinic and back, when we would all meet there regardless.”

They started off and spent the time walking there making idle chatter. Harry asked some questions that occurred to him during his reading, but Sir Graham could not answer most of them, and seemed quite frustrated at his inability. “Perhaps one of the other knights may know,” he said dubiously. “It certainly couldn’t hurt to ask.”

The walk passed quickly, and soon they were at the stables. Three men stood, gathered near the entrance where five sturdy horses waited.

“Mr. Goodsir,” Sir Graham said, walking to the men, “may I introduce you to the knights accompanying us on our journey. You may recognize Sir George Hodgson,” and when he turned and bowed, Harry recognized him immediately, “and this is my commander, Sir James Fitzjames,” gesturing to a man Harry thought was dressed more for show than for battle, though he knew little of armor - perhaps it was for both, “and Sir John Bridgens, who knows some medicine as well. He’s to assist you with medical duties when we get to the village.”

“I certainly would not consider myself near as skilled as a true healer,” Sir John said, “but I’ve had many years to know the body, and I will help you as best I can.” Privately, Harry was glad Sir John was not a healer: he’d had quite enough with other healers dismissing common sense for theory and writing it off as “experience”. And his gentle demeanor would do wonders for setting patients at ease. It did not rid Harry’s worries entirely, but it calmed a large part of him to know that he would be leading the medical efforts wholly, with one less ego to assuage and one less set of deeply-held misconceptions to put right.

“It is good to meet you both,” said Harry, with a bow, “and Sir George, it is good to see you again.”

“As it is to see you, Mr. Goodsir,” Sir George replied. “Thank you again for your help back then.”

Harry shook his head, smiling. “Think nothing of it.”

“Are we ready?” asked Sir James, striding to the horses. The other men nodded, making their way over as well.

“Wonderful,” Sir Graham exclaimed, hoisting himself up onto his saddle. “Then let us be off!”

The ride to the village, as it turned out, was extremely uneventful. Not even the wildlife seemed bothered enough to rustle around them, neither as they rode nor in the brush near where they set up camp for the night. Harry was somewhat disappointed by this, though the lack of distraction made it easy to keep his focus on the village’s dilemma. When he was not chatting with the knights - and he had become quite fond of all of them during the ride, even brash Sir James and especially kind and bookish Sir John - he was recalling all of the things in his books, cross-referencing them to what little he knew of the situation. Harry knew he had to see the afflicted up close and in person to be able to make any real progress, but anything he could specifically look for or rule out while examining would help.

He rode in the middle of the group, Sir Graham leading and Sir James in back, Sir John behind and Sir George ahead. At camp, he and Sir John were the only ones of the group that took no watch shift: on that, Sir James took no argument. “You both need to be in peak condition when we reach the village. Graham, George, and I can rest there; we’re merely here to make sure you get to the village and back safely. You two, on the other hand, will have all sorts of hard work to do when we get there. Sleep.” Point made, James strode off to take first watch, and Harry and John, unable to refute the argument, slept through until morning. The five of them reached the village soon after midday. “There have been rooms reserved for us at the inn,” Sir James said, breaking away from the group. “I shall inform them of our arrival.” He rode off, and Sir Graham lead the rest of them to the town’s clinic. They saw few people along the way, and what people they did see looked more like corpses than anything else. Sallow faces, haunted stares: it gave Harry shivers looking at them.

After hitching the horses nearby, Sir Graham knocked on the clinic door. The man who answered looked tired but alive, and Harry was very glad to see him, to know he had not stepped into a village of ghosts.

“Sir Graham,” said the man, with a smile both exhausted and relieved, “I am glad to see you.”

“I only wish it were under happier circumstances,” Sir Graham replied. He angled towards Harry. “Mr. Goodsir, this is Alexander McDonald, the village’s healer. Mr. McDonald, this is Harry Goodsir.”

“A pleasure,” Harry said, holding out his hand.

“Same to you,” McDonald replied, shaking it. “Now let’s see what _ you _ can do.”

Harry spent the entire rest of the day working with Sir John and Mr. McDonald and was incredibly frustrated to find that not only had he not learned anything regarding the nature of the illness, he had actually been left with _ more _ questions than he started with. Asking Mr. McDonald about things gave no satisfying answers, and he was even more frustrated than Harry with not having answers, as this was _ his _ village and _ his _ patients and he had spent much more time wrangling with this plague than Harry. He felt for him deeply, and Sir John gave Mr. McDonald many sympathetic glances when he thought the other man wouldn’t notice.

Towards the end of the day, Sir James dropped in, with a man who looked as though he had never given himself a break in all his life, who he introduced as Francis Crozier, the acting leader of what unafflicted were left. Despite the obvious exhaustion, his wit was quick and his senses sharp as a hunter’s. Harry marveled at this, as even Mr. McDonald, while functional, carried shades of the plague’s lethargy and admitted to the occasional hallucination, though he was quickly able to discern what was and was not reality. When he asked Crozier about it, the man shook his head helplessly.

“I know not why,” he said lowly. “I know not why I seem to be one of the few unaffected.” A haunted look crept onto his expression. “I see everyone in this village ambling about like _ wraiths_,” he shivered, “and yet my mind is clear. _ I know not why_. By God, I wish I did. I wish I knew.”

A shroud of grief swept over the room. Despite his curiosity, Harry thought it best to speak more to Crozier on it later. In the middle of a healer’s clinic was no place to have a breakdown, even if most of the people in it would not even register the distress. He guessed Crozier to be the sort of man to cling to dignity, even, or perhaps especially, in times of disaster.

There had been a terrible, heavy silence at one point, when Mr. McDonald was in another room and Sir James and Sir John had left to bring supplies, where Crozier choked out, “There’s a boy here… it’s as if he were my own son. I beseech you, Mr. Goodsir… him and Tom, they’re all I have left.” Harry only nodded in response, trying to let Crozier know with his eyes alone that he would not rest until the village was well again. Crozier nodded back, suddenly seeming to sag under the weight of his grief. “Well, then, I find myself in need of rest… if Sir James asks for me, tell him I’ve gone home.” Harry nodded again, and Crozier ambled out the door. As the door shut, Harry felt a sudden and desperate need to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of the clinic, so he left a note to Mr. McDonald saying that Crozier had left and that he was going on a walk and left for the woods on the far side of town with his journal. It was only just sunset, so he had some time yet before he would be too missed.

Among the trees, Harry finally felt as though he could breathe easy, returning to the comforting habit of taking notes on local plants as he got the lay of the land. Though the further he got from the village, the more tired he seemed to become. He sat at the base of a tree, intending to close his eyes only for a moment, the spring air pleasantly cool and sweet…

He awoke to the morning sun and Sir James’ worried face, not feeling very rested at all.

“Oh, goodness,” Harry said, once he realized what had happened, “I’m so terribly sorry. I was so tired all of a sudden, and I… I thought I might rest my eyes here a moment, except it wasn’t only a moment at all…” He looked past Sir James to see Crozier behind him, relief plain in his expression.

“None of that, now,” Sir James assured, “we’re just glad to see you’re safe. Though I know what you mean. I seem awfully tired here, too.” He turned to Crozier. “Do you feel it, too?”

Crozier considered this. “A bit of lethargy, sure, but not so much I’d feel the need to sleep outside. …Though maybe it’s my resistance to this plague talking.”

Harry tried willing his limbs to work, though they seemed abnormally slow to respond. “If I might have a hand getting up?” he asked, embarrassed. Sir James and Crozier each immediately crouched to either side of him, hoisting him up under his arms and leading the way out of the woods. The closer he got to the village, the more awake he felt, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was the lingering grasp of sleep wearing off that did it or if it was the distance from the location.

When the three reached the village, Sir James went ahead to inform Mr. McDonald and Sir John that he was alright, and Harry saw his opportunity. Turning to Crozier, he asked, “May I speak with you a while? I’ve questions about this plague that I feel you may be the only one able to answer.”

“Certainly,” responded Crozier, “though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be able to give.”

Harry smiled, and Crozier led the way to his house, letting Harry in and sitting them both at his dining table.

“So, Mr. Goodsir,” he sighed. “What is it you want to know?”

Harry pulled out his journal, poised to write. “First things first, Mr. Crozier, I think I’d like to know the timeline of this illness. If you don’t mind.”

“‘Course not.” Crozier rested his head in his hand. “Nobody can say for sure when the sickness really _ began _ to take hold, only when people started walking around like ghosts. The first was… it was John Morfin, this fall. But he’d recently had a death in the family, so we dismissed it as grief…” He shook his head sadly. “If only we knew.”

“You cannot blame yourself for something you didn’t know would happen, Mr. Crozier. If you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” replied Crozier, with a wry grin, “but thank you for the sentiment anyways. …After Morfin, it took… the older Hartnell brother, that was in midwinter or so, but we dismissed that as winter lethargy, and that he’d get better, come spring. Well,” he huffed, “kept picking us off one by one after that. The only people I know are still well are myself, Mr. McDonald, my old friend Thomas Blanky, who runs the inn and tavern now, and the man who used to work for me at my woodworking shop, Edward Little.” His eyes turned somber. “Though I fear for Edward and Mr. McDonald. They’ve both begun to show signs of the disease as of late. And who knows when it might catch up to Tom and myself.”

“Do you know where I might find Mr. Little?” Harry asked. “It might be useful to ask of his symptoms.”

Crozier nodded. “He goes out hunting frequently; he’d actually left on a trip shortly before you arrived. He ought to be back sometime today, and I’m sure he’ll stop by the inn when he is. I can wait there for him, when we’re done, if you’ll be busy.”

“The thought is appreciated, sir, but I would like to wait for him myself.”

Harry asked many other questions of Crozier: was there something in the water or the food or the ale - no, the village had tried other sources and the same thing still happened - did it affect the animals, too - hard to say, nobody in the village had seen one nearby for at least half a year, and that’s why Mr. Little’s hunting trips took him out so far - how do the afflicted survive while barely eating or drinking or doing much of _ anything _, really - that remains a mystery to us, even now.

Perhaps most troublingly, Harry learned that there were no physical signs to the illness. A person would be fine one day, and fall into a slump the next - and there was no way to tell whether the slump was temporary or whether it was effectively a death sentence. While Harry was no stranger to diseases of the mind, he had seen nothing like this, and certainly nothing nearly as wholly pervasive as this plague seemed to be.

When he had exhausted his questions, Harry found himself with many answers that puzzled him greatly, and found himself wishing only that the symptoms Mr. Little would provide might shed some light on the situation. He went to the inn and waited outside, reviewing his observations in the vain hope that something might slot into place.

He had not gotten any farther in his deductions by the time the sun was starting to go down, when he saw an unfamiliar man striding down the road, bundles slung over his back.

“Are you Mr. Little?” Harry called.

“Yes,” he replied cautiously.

Harry smiled and made his introductions, following Little into the inn where he deposited his animal carcasses. “May I have a moment of your time? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“If you think I may be able to help, then I will gladly answer any question you like.”

The two sat at a table in the corner of the inn, and Blanky set down mugs of water for them both and a plate of meat and bread for Little before going behind the bar and pretending not to listen in.

“At this point, I’ve only got one big question for you to answer,” Harry said, cradling his water. “I’ve been told you’re starting to get symptoms of the disease-” Little flinched, as if being unwell was something to be scolded for- “and I need you to tell me, as best you can, what those symptoms are and how they’re affecting you.”

Little took a bite of bread and a sip of water and paused even after that before speaking. “Everything is… harder, now, to do. Every day, I go to bed bone-tired. As if I could fall asleep and not awaken for days.” He looked down into his mug. “At this point, I have Francis come make sure I’m awake every morning, to avoid that happening. It’s awful, to have to rely on another so just to live.” With a low feeling of dread, things began connecting for Harry then. “But better to live at all, I suppose, than to have succumbed completely to the illness.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Harry asked, “Anything else?”

A small nod, almost unconscious. “Everything’s heavy. And slow. I don’t eat as much as I used to, or drink, but I sleep so much more.” His brows pinched. “I barely recognize myself. It’s as if I’m half-dead already. There are times where I think about telling Crozier not to come, to let myself sleep for days. I-” he shook his head in fear. “What have I become?” He looked at Harry then. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… go on like that. Was I… helpful, at least?”

“You very well may have been,” replied Harry, in the terrifying throes of revelation. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Anything.”

“Do people go to the forest to the east of town?”


	2. Chapter 2

The strange thing, Harry thought, pushing aside branches and the fear that he would end up as he did the last time he came, is that Little only seemed confused when he thought about it. “No,” he’d said, but could not come up with any reason as to why. No village superstitions, no bad history - nothing. But nobody in the village had ever gone there.

Nobody, that is, until Harry had foolishly gone there alone. Although, he reasoned, if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have made the connection between his own symptoms there and the feelings Little had been describing. A foolhardy move, he maintained, but one that became necessary in the end.

And at least he was better prepared this time. He would absolutely not give into thoughts of rest this time, no matter how tempting. He went in the night, to avoid having to explain the situation to the knights, though he left a note in his room to say where he’d gone if he was not back by morning. Certainly Crozier, at least, in his resistance to the disease, though Harry was beginning to suspect it was not a disease at all, would be able to find him eventually.

Harry’s lantern became his lifeline, for the trees got thicker the closer he got to his goal. Brushing aside branches became harder and harder with every step, and soon Harry could not see the moon at all through the thick canopy of the forest. He’d had no idea how much time had passed when at last, he came upon a clearing with a small, weathered castle in its center. Finally he could see the moon, nearly at midnight, and knew instinctually that this was what he was looking for. Feeling as though he were carrying a person on his back, he marched onward into the castle.

Finding what he was looking for was not easy, despite using the oppressiveness of the atmosphere as a guide. Small though it was, the castle was bigger than any building Harry had ever been in, and its myriad of hallways made it easy to get lost. He did his best to sketch out a map of the place in his journal as he went, but he had the sinking feeling that it got twisted around somehow and might well be unusable at this point.

He had to have been looking for nearly an hour when he finally came across a light that was not his own, spilling out from a room that otherwise looked the same as the ones next to it. Harry did not know if it was just from all the wandering, but he felt heavier than he ever had before, so, clutching to his last shreds of hope, Harry stepped into the room.

It was lit only by one candle next to the bed, and Harry was feeling the heaviness now so acutely it was as if Sir James had sat on his chest in full plate. A lone figure lay on the bed in the corner, surprising Harry greatly, though he could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. He made his way over to him, each step feeling like a thousand. Once at the bed, he made his single concession to the weight and knelt on the floor next to it. Sitting on the bed, even the very edge, would only invite him to lay down, and he had little confidence that he would get back up once he did. He reached out and gently nudged the lump, only causing him to roll over. Harry could see his face now, though, and marveled at how, even unkempt, this man was a beauty. Not quite conventionally, but gorgeous dark hair, strong brows, and facial features that looked as if they were wrought to complement the dichotomy of light and shadow. He was the most striking man Harry had ever seen. He made another of his single concessions and brushed his fingertips, feather-light, over the man’s cheek before nudging him more firmly. Another stir, but still asleep. Harry murmured an apology before giving the man a hard shake, finally causing him to wake, turning his back to him in irritation. “Please get up,” Harry said, shaking him again. The man pushed his hands away, although he propped himself up against the headboard and fixed him with what would certainly have been one of the most baleful glares Harry had ever been on the receiving end of, had it not been for the dulling effect of lingering tiredness.

“‘oor yoo,” he slurred, which Harry hoped meant “who are you”.

“I’m Harry Goodsir, a healer,” he replied, “and I think you’re under a curse.”

The man stared at him with muted sorrow. “I could’ve told you that. If that’s all, I’m going back to sleep.”

Harry grabbed his hand to stop him. “I… who are you?”

The man stared at him for an all-encompassing moment. “My name’s Henry.”

“Henry,” Harry breathed, smiling. He dropped his hand from Henry’s. “Well, it’s… it’s good to meet you, Henry.”

Henry hummed in response.

“I, ah… Do you know why you’re cursed?”

Another hum, which Harry thought sounded affirmative.

“Would you mind telling me?”

Henry only looked at him.

“Hm.” Harry floundered for something to say, and started babbling to fill the silence. “Well, ah, perhaps you’re not so much up to talking, I suppose… although I would feel awful leaving you here by yourself.”

A silence. Then: “...Why?”

“Why…?” Looking at Henry, Harry saw genuine confusion. “Well, because goodness knows how long you’ve been here alone before I came along. Considering how heavy it feels here, it’s hard to imagine someone would stumble upon you by accident. And the villagers certainly don’t come out here. I only found you because I was looking. Do you feel that accursed heaviness, too? You must, it’s so strong around you.”

“Of course I do,” Henry replied, and left it at that. Harry decided not to push.

Harry continued to talk mostly  _ at _ Henry, mostly describing his ride to the village and the flora he remembered seeing along the way, as well as his practice back at the capital. Henry said precious few words in return but seemed to actively fight to stay awake to listen to Harry, so he considered that progress enough, especially with Little’s words echoing in his head, how nothing enticed him so much as sleep did anymore. It was only when Harry noticed the moon beginning to set through the window that he realized how long he had been talking at Henry’s bedside.

“Goodness, is it that time already?” Harry asked. “I really must get back, I’ll be missed if I’m away much longer.” He forced himself up from the floor, and as he was ready to turn to go:

“Will you come back?” So soft, he nearly missed it.

Harry was overjoyed. “If you wish it, then of course. Of course I’ll come back. Until then, goodbye, Henry. Sleep well.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Henry muttered, sardonic grin stretched across his face, appearing as if it pained him. And then, for a slow, warm, ethereal moment, the pain disappeared, and the grin melted into the smallest, softest smile Harry had ever seen. “...Goodbye, Harry.”

Harry could feel his cheeks blazing and his heart pounding in his chest, but that smile made him feel so buoyant he hardly felt the weight of the place at all as he left.

On the way back to the village, Harry made notes about the castle and about Henry in his journal, how Henry’s own curse and the village’s “plague” were near-certainly linked, how despite showing most of the symptoms shared in the villagers, his mind was obviously clear and functioned as well as Harry’s own. He still felt the lethargy, the heaviness, and, Harry surmised, the loss of appetite, but he did not hallucinate or shut down as the villagers did. The whole situation still perplexed Harry, but he got the feeling that Henry was vital, somehow, to breaking the curse. And no matter how many exhausting trips to and from the castle it took, Harry was determined to figure out how.

And if, perhaps, he could see another of those sugar-spun smiles of Henry’s, well, that was just an unexpected benefit.

Harry managed to get into his room at the inn before sunrise, leaving another note on his desk to inform anyone who came calling that he had stayed up most of the night and would be sleeping until lunch, if someone would be so kind as to wake him then. He also amended his first note to give a more exact description of where he would be, since he knew already that he would be visiting Henry again tonight. His own anticipation and draw to the man aside, the sooner he broke the curse, the more likely it would be he could save Mr. McDonald and Little from shutting down at all, and the sooner he could lift the endless grief from Crozier’s eyes.

In the morning, it was Sir George that woke him, and he asked Harry on their way to lunch what he had been doing all night to keep him up so late.

“I think I may have found a lead on how to heal this town,” Harry enthused, “and I spent the night researching it, as I suspect I will spend the next many nights doing.” He felt strange about keeping the existence of Henry from Sir George, but something in Harry jealously guarded that knowledge, and Harry thought it might be that, kind as the knights were, they wouldn’t understand the gentleness Henry needed. Perhaps when more progress was made, Harry would be more willing to share, though something in him rankled at that, too. He put that aside to think about later.

Lunch was filled with talk of Harry’s new discovery, once Sir George shared it with the other men, and Harry thought he might have seen hope in Crozier’s eyes for the first time since he came here.

“Nobody else has even had a lead, as you have,” Crozier murmured to him afterwards. “I hope this means good news for us.”

“As do I, Mr. Crozier,” Harry responded, laying a warm hand on his shoulder, before leaving to help Sir John and Mr. McDonald in the clinic.

Harry found Henry quicker that night, knowing the way and what to look for. He knelt at Henry’s bedside again, and with another firm shake, Henry was awake and propped against his headboard. Harry would almost have said he looked relieved to see him.

“You came back,” Henry said, softly.

Goodsir’s heart broke a little to hear it. “Of course I did. I said I would.”

Henry gave a small hum. “People often say things they don’t mean.”

“Well,” Harry said, taking Henry’s hand. “I will always come back to see you. For as long as you want me here. And I mean that.”

Blushing, Henry squeezed Harry’s hand softly. Harry’s heart skipped many beats before settling as he continued to tell Henry about relatively banal things: about his work as a scholar this time, about his passion for anatomy and the study of nature, and Henry offered a little more commentary that day than he had the day before, with his mood being a little lighter, as well. Harry had mentioned how being a healer seemed to run in the family, and Henry, without thinking, said “My family, too, we’re all-” and all of a sudden, all his good humor was gone. He slipped his hand from Harry’s and rolled over to sleep without so much as a “goodbye”. Harry was feeling rather adrift, but he would not force him to wake and speak of something that so obviously pained him when even contentedness was so new to him. No, Harry decided as he left, better to show him he can be happy before forcing him to contend with his pain. Give him a reason to stay awake so that he would not solve everything with sleep. It was not so easy as that, he knew, but he would do his best. That was all he could do.

Henry woke the next night as sullen as he was when he and Harry had first met. He barely spoke, but he did allow Harry to stroke his hand with his thumb, which seemed to soften his edges despite himself, and when Harry got up to leave, he said a small “thank you” before he fell back asleep.

Before Harry knew it, two weeks had passed, and Henry had his ups and downs, but even his worst days were better now than they were. On his best days, they had full conversations, though Henry still spoke much less than Harry. Harry was willing to chalk some of it up to being the sort of person Henry was. Things were so peaceful for Harry, even when Henry was withdrawn, haunted by something Harry couldn’t see, that he nearly forgot the reason he was supposed to be speaking with Henry in the first place.

He woke one morning to a worried Sir John, asking for Harry’s presence at the clinic.

When the two of them arrived, Sir John brought him to a back room, where Mr. McDonald was asleep on a cot. Harry didn’t see the cause for worry until Sir John said that his eyes went glassy all of a sudden and that he collapsed where he stood. Harry, hoping against hope that Mr. McDonald had not gone yet, sat at his bedside and tried to nudge him awake. While his eyes opened, they were distant and unfocused and following something only he could see. Harry instructed Sir John to stay at his bedside and try to talk to him as much as he could, seeing if perhaps he was not completely lost yet. And despite it being midday, he immediately hurried over to the castle to talk to Henry. He could not afford to waste time anymore; he never could, and was foolish to forget that.


	3. Chapter 3

It was strange to shake Henry awake while the sun was still in the sky, but Harry pushed aside the feeling. When Henry rose, he squinted his eyes against the sunlight pouring in the window.

“Why’s it morning?” he asked blearily.

“I’m sorry, Henry, there was…” Harry sighed. “I have been meaning to ask you about something, and every time we meet, I get so wrapped up in my own feelings I forget to, or I put it off. I cannot put it off any longer; I am sorry to wake you at this hour, but it’s urgent.”

Henry looked at him with concern. “What do you need to know?”

“It’s…” Harry lightly settled his hand on Henry’s. “I need to know of your curse.” Henry’s expression shuttered, and Harry squeezed his hand lightly in hopes that he would not run. “It isn’t about you or me. If it were, I would have all the time in the world. But…” He could not get the words out. Henry looked at him expectantly and turned his hand over to squeeze Harry’s back. Harry took a fortifying breath and managed, “But the villagers may not have that time.”

Henry looked distraught. “Have I… Have I killed anyone with this?”

“No,” Harry said tentatively, “but they might as well be dead, for the sort of un-lives they live.” He brought his other hand to hold Henry’s between both of his. “One of the few villagers left had a scare with it today. I know not whether it was a temporary spell or whether he has succumbed, but… I need answers now, at least.”

Henry looked as though he wanted to curl under his blankets and sleep forever, and it was his own force of will and Harry’s hands around his own that kept him upright, albeit on the brink of panic. Harry squeezed his hand again, and the tears spilled, unstoppable now that the dam had burst. Harry, breaking form for the first time in their tentative friendship, sat on the edge of the bed and held Henry as he sobbed, rubbing his back and holding back tears himself.

It seemed to go on for ages, though eventually Henry’s tears dried up and he was left wetly gasping into Harry’s shoulder.

“Better?” Harry asked softly.

Henry weakly nodded, sniffling. He mumbled something, too soft for Harry to make out.

“Pardon?”

“I said… stay?”

Harry felt as if he might cry once more. “Yes. Yes, of course I’ll stay. As long as you like.”

Henry sniffled again. “…Have I missed the sunset?”

Unsure of the point, but willing to give Henry anything he asked for, Harry looked out the window to see the sun just about to dip behind the horizon. “No… No, actually, it’s just about to happen now.”

“Can you help me up?” A weak sniffle. “I think I’d like to see it.”

“Of… of course, Henry, of course,” Harry said, stunned. He got his shoulder under Henry’s and, with great exertion, managed to get Henry upright and walking over to the window. He staggered a couple of times along the way, but before long, the two were standing at the window, looking out. Henry reached forward to unlatch the window and push it open, nearly moved to tears again at the fresh air.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed. “It’s been so long, I… I nearly forgot.”

They stood there, watching in silence as the sun sank down under the horizon. Henry nearly pitched forward, and would have without Harry there to steady him. Harry helped him back into bed, and though he looked tired enough to fall asleep standing upright, he sat himself up against the headboard and said, “Don’t let me go a day without doing that. Even if I fight you on it and resent you for it in the moment. Please. Promise me.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “I promise.”

“Doesn’t have to be the sunset, either,” Henry said. “Whatever the sky is when you’re here, I want to see it.” Harry nodded and Henry grimaced. “And… I owe you quite the explanation now, don’t I? …Go on, ask away.”

Harry put his hand on Henry’s knee. “I know everything I need to know for now. I won’t push you to tell.”

Drooping in relief, Henry smiled, another one of those private, warming smiles that Harry wished he could trap in amber. “Well, I should tell you one thing, shouldn’t I? What’s the date today?” Harry checked his journal and told him. “Well then. I’ve been cursed for nearly two years.”

Harry smiled, and the two, bolstered by the soaring feeling of a first step, talked well into the night.

Harry came back to the village around midnight and thought that before he went to bed, he would check on Mr. McDonald in the clinic. Despite the day’s events with Henry, Harry knew full well that on its own, it would not be enough to break the curse. Quietly, he made his way into the clinic and to the back room Mr. McDonald was in.

The cot was empty.

Harry went to breakfast the next morning to find Sir James and Crozier in conversation, as had become usual over the time they’d been there. Blanky was preparing plates for the latecomers and talking with Sir John and Sir Graham about plans for meals over the coming days. Harry had just prepared to join their conversation when the door to the inn flew open to reveal Sir George in a headlock from a spirited Little. Crozier looked ready to fall over, and Blanky’s face split into a grin, relieved and proud. The two sat with Crozier and Sir James, and shortly after, Mr. McDonald’s beaming face appeared in the door, finally looking well-rested and hale.

“What on earth happened?” Sir John asked wondrously.

Harry could do nothing but beam.

Even the walk to Henry’s room in the castle seemed easier today, bolstered as Harry was by the flood of good news.

When he got to Henry, he seemed exceptionally tired and a little unresponsive, but even he couldn’t help but break a tiny smile at the news that not only were Mr. McDonald and Little safe, they seemed even better than before.

It took a lot more out of Henry that day to stand by the window and look out at the sky, but they both remembered Harry’s promise and struggled through it.

When Henry sat back down, he swallowed and made a strange face. “Do you have any- water? On you?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, reaching for his canteen.

“I’m… I’m thirsty,” Henry said, looking as if the idea was an affront to him. “Could I have a drink?”

“Of course,” said Harry, handing him the bottle. Henry took a couple of small sips before he’d seemingly decided that was enough, and re-sealed the canteen before handing it back to him.

“Thank you,” he said softly, head drooping. “Sorry, I’m exhausted, I feel as though I could fall asleep right now if I let myself.”

Harry smiled. “That’s quite alright. Do you need help lying down?” Henry shook his head. “Rest well, then. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Mm. Goodnight, Harry.”

On the way back to the village, Harry noticed a single bird flying overhead.

The next morning, Harry found Henry already awake and sitting at the headboard. “I ought to get books in here or some such if I’m to wake before you get here now,” he remarked idly, “I’m sure there’s a library in here somewhere.”

“I’m sure,” agreed Harry, “but who knows if the books there are even readable?” He went to sit on Henry’s bedside this time, feeling light enough that he didn’t fear eternal sleep if he showed weakness for even a moment. In fact, the room had stopped feeling nearly so heavy a few days ago. “Also, I don’t know where the library is, and I’m not sure you’ve the strength to walk as much as it may take to find it.”

“Hm. I suppose you’re right,” he muttered.

“Although…” Harry said, “if you let me know what sort of books you’d like, I can find the library on my own and see if there’s anything salvageable in there.”

Henry smiled, soft and sure. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you. I don’t remember liking much of anything, before, so I’ll trust you to pick something for me.” He started to lean forward, bracing his hands at his side. “I feel good today. I want to see how far I can get to the window on my own.”

“Okay,” said Harry, “but the moment you’d like my help, I’m here.”

“I know, Harry. Thank you.”

Harry’s heart beat a sweet song in his chest, and as Henry struggled to stand on his own, Harry Goodsir realized he was in love.

Harry needed to assist Henry to the window, but he had stood by himself.

They talked that day of the villagers: Henry had specifically asked about them, and so Harry talked of kind Mr. McDonald and brash Mr. Blanky and fatherly Mr. Crozier and newly-lively Mr. Little, and he talked of the knights that accompanied him here, of Sir James and Crozier’s unlikely friendship, of the brotherly bonding happening between Sir George and Little, of Sir John’s infinite gentleness and curiosity, of Sir Graham and how he seemed to be a character from old tales of chivalry come to life, and how fond he became of them all in a few short weeks. Henry watched him talk with eyes that seemed to sparkle in his good mood and said he’d like to meet them all sometime. Harry regretfully informed him of the distance between the castle and the village, and Henry, though clearly daunted, said how he had been getting better so far, and how it wouldn’t be long until he could make that walk with Harry.

Harry couldn’t wait for the day.

When Harry managed to find the library later, after Henry had gone to bed with a drink of water, he found it in relatively good condition, most books yellowed with age but whole, and Harry picked a few books he recognized, went back to set them on Henry’s nightstand, with the exception of a book of poetry he took for himself, and headed back to the village.

Harry was about to head out to visit Henry the next afternoon when he saw Crozier sitting in front of his house, head in his hands. Harry sat down next to him. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Crozier?”

“Problem?” Crozier raised his head to reveal an expression of cautious joy. “What problem? Thomas- he’s not up yet, but… he recognized me. I swear it. He looked at me and he was _here_. That’s… that’s more than I ever hoped for.”

“Thomas… Blanky?”

Understanding lit his features. “Oh! No, Thomas Jopson. The one I consider my son of sorts. He’s… I’m very glad to see he’s still in there.”

Harry smiled warmly. “As am I, Mr. Crozier.”

Crozier shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Mr. Goodsir, but whatever it is, I thank you for it,” he said. “This is a debt I cannot repay.”

“There is no debt, Mr. Crozier,” insisted Harry, “but you are welcome.”

Crozier looked as if he might argue, but gave up on it at the last moment. “Well, don’t let me keep you from whatever mysterious thing you were off to before.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come off it,” Crozier laughed, “you disappear for hours and expect us _not_ to notice? Whatever it is, you come back safely, and the plague is finally beginning to lift, so it’s clearly not doing any harm. The knights were particularly worried, once they figured it out, but you’d already been doing it for long enough that they left you to your own devices.”

Harry looked away bashfully. “I didn’t realize you all knew…”

“It doesn’t matter to us,” Crozier said, all warmth. “You’re here and whole and happy, and that’s all we care about.”

“Well…” Harry smiled. “Thank you.” With a nod, he stood and made to leave.

“Good day, Mr. Goodsir,” called Crozier.

Harry turned. “Good day, Mr. Crozier. Francis.” And he walked away.

Henry’s mood was not so good that day, but he had even more energy than the day before and resolved to using his bitterness to continue to push himself. He managed to make it all the way to the window that day on his own, and asked Harry to help him to the hallway, where he managed to walk four doors down before Harry had to call it quits for him and take him back to lay in his bed. Henry begrudgingly admitted the wisdom of the decision, resolve by now outpacing the limits of his body and frustrating him greatly.

“It’s frustrating, I know it is. But you cannot give up, dear Henry,” Harry said, smoothing his thumb over Henry’s tense knuckles. The “dear Henry”s were the one admittance he allowed himself to the revelation of his feelings for the other man. He excused the touch by the fact that they had done that from the start, and that it was always for Henry’s comfort, despite the pleasure Harry may have felt from it.

Henry sighed angrily. “I know. There’s just… I want things now. I never did before.” He looked at Harry. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Harry. “And you’ll be able to experience all those things soon. But for now, your body is adjusting so that it can support you in that. It’s gone through a lot. _You’ve_ gone through a lot. So it’s taking time to heal.” Harry smiled. “And you’ve made so much progress in just a few days. You’ve so many more _years_ after this to live your life exactly how you want to. Give yourself time, Henry. You’ll get there.”

Henry sat there, just breathing, for a time. Then he said, “I brought my curse on myself, I think.” Harry looked at him in confusion. “I… I wanted things to end. But I couldn’t bring myself to end things directly, so when I ran here… I prayed that time might end things instead. That things would be over, in effect, but I wouldn’t end them myself. Selfish of me, I know, but…”

“You couldn’t see another way?” Harry ventured.

Henry grimaced in the shape of a smile. “Exactly. But… then the curse wasn’t just affecting me anymore. You were here, and then I learned about the villagers…”

Taking a deep breath, Harry decided to chance it. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to. Why did you want to end things?”

“I just felt _trapped_,” said Henry. “Like it was the only way out of a nightmare. Better to have nothing at that point, I thought.”

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward to embrace him. Henry melted into his arms with a sweet sigh. “You are so strong for living now,” Harry said firmly. “And I am proud of you for choosing that.”

“I’m glad you found me,” Henry murmured, holding tighter. “Thank you.”

The two sat like that for a while, before Henry blurted out: “Will you read to me, Harry?” He flushed, pulling away. “That probably sounds childish. But I enjoy hearing your voice, and I’m not tired enough to sleep yet.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Harry. “Which do you want me to read?”

“Don’t know. Something happy.”

Harry considered this and pulled one of the books from the stack. It had been a favorite of his as a schoolboy, about a young man and his hound and their adventures across the countryside to find the young man’s family. He smiled just thinking of it. He cracked open the book and began to read until Henry was slumbering peacefully. He tore a loose scrap of fabric from the tattered curtains to use as a bookmark and set the novel on top of the stack, to be finished at a later day.

On the way back to the village, Harry swore he saw a rabbit.

The next morning, a new face was up and about in town. The knights were abuzz talking about who it could be, and the moment he stepped into the inn, tired-looking but aware, followed by a blotchy-faced Crozier, Little had shouted “Tom!” and rushed to embrace him.

“Is that the Thomas you were speaking of only yesterday?” Harry asked Crozier, walking to him.

“Yes,” he sniffled. “He finally spoke last night, and he was up this morning, same as he ever was…”

Harry looked over to where Little was catching Jopson up to speed on what happened while he was ill, arm around his shoulders. “Well, I’m quite glad to see him up. It seems as if he’ll make a quick recovery.” He looked a little to the right, where Sir James was pretending not to stare at Crozier. “It appears someone wishes to speak with you,” he said, laying a hand on Crozier’s shoulder and nodding at Sir James.

“It would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Crozier smiled. “I know I’ve said it before, but… _thank you_, Harry. For bringing my son back to me.” He walked to sit with Sir James before Harry could respond.

“There’s someone new up and about in town,” Harry told Henry that night, by way of greeting. Henry seemed very pleased to hear it and asked Harry to tell him about him. So he spoke of well-mannered Jopson and his familial relationship with Crozier - “The fatherly one?” “Yes.” - and the joyful reunion of Jopson and Little, who had become dear friends just before the curse started to truly take hold of the village. Jopson was also one of the last villagers to succumb, he’d learned, and it broke Crozier’s heart when his eyes finally took the dullness of the fully afflicted.

Henry managed to make it to the end of the hall and back today, much of it with little assistance from Harry, and insisted that the next day he would try taking the stairs.

When he was situated once again, satisfied in achieving such a clear-cut goal, Harry asked him, “You know so much of me, but I do not know much of where you came from; would you tell me?”

Henry seemed uncomfortable at the prospect. “Some,” he conceded. And he told Harry of his five siblings and his overbearing parents and a childhood where all the material possessions of the world were his, and yet he was exceedingly lonely. “I had been lonely my whole life,” he told Harry, “until you talked to me and would not leave a dying man to oblivion. Maybe it’s silly of me, but I think maybe it’s fate that we met like this.” Harry couldn’t say he disliked the thought of it.

The book was brought out again, after, which Henry seemed relieved for, and again Harry read until Henry slept.

When Harry came back to the village, he saw a new face staggering in the streets, not quite conscious but mobile. He did his best to help them to a safe place for the night and made a note to tell the others in the morning if they did not already know.

The next afternoon, after being introduced properly to William Gibson, Harry arrived at the castle to see Henry already at the top of the steps, waiting for him. At Harry’s look of concern, Henry defended himself, saying he’d kept close to the walls and stopped when he needed to, which assuaged Harry’s concerns somewhat.

“I am glad you didn’t try to take the stairs alone,” he said, when he reached Henry at the top of the steps.

“I probably could have,” Henry retorted, as Harry got his shoulder under Henry’s, “but I knew you’d have been frightened if I’d tried, so I decided to wait.”

They took the first uncertain step. “Well, I thank you for that. I worry for you enough as it is.”

“I think you’re a worrier, though,” another step, “it’s in your nature.”

Another step. “I think you’re right about that.” Another. “But I would rather worry too much than too little.” Another. Henry gazed at Harry softly, pausing before he took the next step.

“I think I owe my life to your worrying, though.” Another. “If you hadn’t worried about me as much as you have,” another, “I might’ve still been lying in that awful bed of mine,” another, “instead of thinking about going outside for the first time,” another, “since I got here.” Another.

“You want to go outside today?” Another.

“More than anything.” Another.

“Well then,” as they took the final step, “let’s make that happen.” And Harry led Henry across the foyer , who was looking better and better the more distance he got from his old room, and opened the doors to lead him out into the morning sun for the first time in nearly two years. Henry shut his eyes against the feeling and leaned into Harry, basking in the warmth from both. Harry allowed himself to lean into Henry, as well, savoring a rare, perfect moment.

“I want to go all the way to the village,” Henry said softly. Harry boggled at him. “I think I can do it. I don’t know why… being out of that old castle makes me feel as though I could walk forever. And you’ll be with me.” He looked at Harry with a tenderness that was almost unbearable. “I could do anything if I know you’re with me.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m the only one around,” said Harry, shaking his head.

“No,” Henry insisted, “it’s not as if I haven’t known other people. I did, before. I knew- tons of people. And I’ve never met anyone as incredible as you. I mean it.” Looking at him then, Harry could almost let himself believe it.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. If you think you can do it, though I must warn you it’s a long ways, then we’ll do it. Together.”

Henry beamed like nothing Harry had ever seen him do before. He hugged him tight, and Harry thought he must be feeling some touch of the curse, because he swore he felt the press of Henry’s lips against his jaw. “I’ll tell you all about me on the way. Promise.” Harry nodded, unsure of what there was left to tell. “Oh, but before we go,” he pulled away, “there is one thing from here I want to save.”

“What would that be?” Harry asked.

Henry blushed, looking down. “That novel you read to me. We never did finish it.”

“No, I suppose we didn’t, did we?” Harry smiled. “Wait here. I’ll run in and fetch it.”

Henry sat by a column as Harry ran back inside. He took the book Henry requested, makeshift bookmark and all, and stopped to take one last look outside the bedroom window before running back to Henry, who was waiting right where Harry left him, smile still just as wide.

“Shall we?” Harry asked, helping him up.

“Let’s,” replied Henry, who wrapped his arm around Harry in a way that couldn’t be passed off as support. Harry’s heart fluttered at the touch even as he reciprocated.

Henry waited until they were out of the densest part of the forest to speak. “There’s… really only one major thing about me I never told you. So… let me introduce myself properly. It’s good to meet you, Harry Goodsir, I am, unfortunately, _Prince_ Henry Collins.”

Harry nearly tripped over a root. “Wait, _you’re_ the- oh! _Oh!_ Nearly two years… goodness, how could I not have noticed?”

Henry looked exceedingly sheepish. “I don’t act like much of a prince, I’m told.”

“Well, I’m glad for it,” replied Harry. “Most princes, I find, are awfully holier-than-thou. Although,” he added mischievously, “they usually have better haircuts.”

“I’ve been asleep for nearly two years!” shouted Henry in mock outrage. “Do _you_ see a barber around here?” Harry found he could not keep his face in check and broke into giggles like a schoolboy, Henry following shortly after. He started shoving Harry playfully, though Harry was no stranger to roughhousing and gave as good as he got. As they wound down and their giggles began to subside, the two looked up to find their faces awfully close to each other, Harry going red at the realization. “…Harry,” Henry breathed, “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s quite alright with you.”

“Please,” Harry murmured, before Henry caught his lips with his own. The moment stretched like molasses, thick and near-saccharine in its sweetness. Harry thought his heart might burst as he felt as much as heard Henry’s soft sounds against his mouth and his warm breaths, each one an affirmation that this moment was real, real, _real_, that Henry was here and happy and alive and - Harry put a hand on his heart and found it beating just as rapidly as his own - as exhilarated as Harry was to finally be allowed to touch and kiss without reservation. To _love_ without reservation.

They broke apart gently, Harry’s hand finding Henry’s. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Anything, with you,” Henry answered, leading the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i manage to write an epilogue for this i don't hate, i'll be sure to update, but for now, this is it! thanks a bunch!


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